


Spoils of War

by rowaelinsmut



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Heavy Angst, Mutilation, Torture, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 04:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowaelinsmut/pseuds/rowaelinsmut
Summary: Rhys is captured during the war (the one from 500 years ago) and he loses something very dear to him.





	Spoils of War

Pain had been his constant companion for longer than he cared to remember. Days had become weeks and weeks melded into months and then Rhysand stopped counting. He stopped hoping for a reprieve. There would be no rescue.

They had strung him up in the middle of camp between two trees with the chains that nullified his powers. He watched as his men were tortured and slaughtered before him before they turned the whips on him, raging that he hadn’t flinched. Not outwardly, anyways.

They began breaking his bones and cutting into his flesh at their leisure, inch by painful inch. Mercifully, his wings had remained mostly untouched, the restraint he used to hide that those were his most vulnerable parts was the true test of his strength.

Hybern wanted to know where the Night Court forces were and the standing order was to use any means necessary to attain that information.

Rhys refused to break.

It pissed his captors off. Silence had been his only weapon that he could use against them and he would not go down so easily.

Rhysand had been dozing fitfully when the atmosphere of the war camp changed. He was instantly alert, the air charged with a renewed sense of violence coupled with cheers and malicious sneers.

Rhys swallowed, nerves getting the better of him. Perhaps they had finally decided to kill him. He watched under lowered lashes as most of the camp started marching towards where he was strung up.

“Hello bastard,” Reon, his main tormentor drawled, a manic grin plastered across his harsh features.

Rhys, as normal, refused to respond.

“Oh, I’ll have you singing soon enough, pretty boy.”

The crowd around him leered menacingly. And for the first time since he’d been strung up here to rot, he feared for his life. He feared he wouldn’t see his family’s faces ever again.

Protect the court at all costs. Take their secrets to his grave. That was his responsibility according to his father. It looked like he would be required to fulfill that responsibility sooner rather than later.

Reon came around in front of him, holding a serrated dagger in his hands. He waved it in Rhys’ face.

“Do you know what I plan to use this for?”

Silence.

“I found out one of your secrets, little Lord. I found out that your mother was an Illyrian slut and your father found her in a camp and sired you. You’re Illyrian and I’m going to take what you value most in the world.”

He disappeared behind Rhys and then a rough hand brushed over his wings. Rhys jerked, eyes going wide with fear. He pulled at the chains, the chains that took his strength, his fight away from him. Bound, helpless and about to experience the worst thing an Illyrian could go through.

Because Reon was going to take his wings, and there was nothing that Rhys could do to stop him.

“Sing for me, little Lord,” and then he set the dagger against the muscle of Rhys’ right wing and began to saw back and forth in fast and sure strokes.

Rhys roared so loud that the ground beneath his feet shook but that only spurred Reon’s taste for blood. The pain was blinding, all consuming. He felt every tendon, every bone and every muscle crack under Reon’s hands.

Rhys blacked out eventually.

At least in the dark, there was no pain. There was only dreams. Dreams of a time without war, a time where he was with his family, laughing and joking with his brothers.

Hours later when he woke again, it was well into the middle of the night. There was laughter ringing out through the camp, as though they hadn’t just shattered an Illyrians’ entire world. All Rhys felt was pain and a sticky wetness all over his body.

He chanced a look over his shoulder to his wing and swore at the ghastly sight. Reon hadn’t finished. He’d gotten about halfway through the muscle connecting his wing to his back. Every time Rhys would move, it would tear slightly because the weight of his wing was too great for the muscle that had been left uncut. Which effectively meant that he would hang there as his wing slowly and painfully tore away from his body.

Rhys vomited on his chest.

Then he prayed to the Mother, to the Cauldron, to any Gods who hadn’t abandoned him for reprieve. If he was forced to live without his wings, his death note was already written.

The loss of that freedom was the greatest shame to an Illyrian. Rhys knew there was nothing to be done. He would never taste the skies, never chase the sun.

He was already dead.

The next morning, Reon paid him another visit. Rhys hadn’t slept and he’d been forced to relieve himself so the smell of him and the sight of the blood all over the ground mixed with his vomit and urine was gory to say the least.

Reon sneered in Rhysand’s face.

“Are you ready to talk?”

Silence.

Reon stalked around him, admiring his handiwork. “This is delightfully macabre, my friend. Look at the masterpiece we have created together.”

Rhys’ eyes closed. He knew nothing but shame, nothing but the resolution that death was certain in this monster’s hands.

Reon‘s hand grazed the uncut bits of Rhys’ wings delicately. But the pain was too much for even that and a hoarse cry tore from his chest. Reon chuckled and then grabbed his wing and pulled, tearing the remainder of the wing from Rhys’ back.

Rhys screamed once more as his world shattered.

Reon laughed and the manic laugh haunted Rhys as he lost consciousness again.

At least in the dark, he could still hope. He hoped for kindness as he flew through the skies, no war, no grief and no loss. He hoped for a better world, he hoped for love. It was a beautiful dream, a beautiful hope and nothing could touch him.

Until he awoke again.

The only mercy was that the stump where his right wing used to be was no longer actively tearing so now the pain was just a constant sharp stabbing. That was his reality now, finding the silver lining in the loss of his freedom.

Reon was there as Rhys opened his eyes with a groan.

“Hello beautiful,” he drawled, a malicious smile spreading, “are you ready for more fun?”

Sick bastard. If only Rhys had his powers…

Reon and two other males stalked around to Rhys’ back and Rhys just heard a low whistle.

“Gruesome.”

Rhys so badly wanted to open his mouth but he knew it was useless. There was no threat he could utter, no insult he could say that would ever measure up to his situation. He would be laughed at because he was powerless.

“Shall we begin?”

They all agreed, too quickly, too eagerly and Rhys steeled himself for what was sure to be worse than every bit of pain he had endured so far.

The three males took their time on this one. They broke every bone and every tendon in his left wing. Rhys passed in and out of consciousness as they worked. It was hours and hours of a different pain. They broke every part of his wing that they could until Rhys was sure it looked like a mangled mess instead of a once glorious and powerful mass of muscle that enabled him to fly.

—

The last thing Rhys remembered before Reon and his cronies beat him into unconsciousness was that they didn’t cut his left wing off.

And as Rhys awoke, he realised that he was no longer strung up between two trees and that he felt his magic flicker weakly inside of him as a result.

He also noticed the lack of sound. Or rather, the lack of the war camp noise he’d gotten so used to. Instead, there was sunlight and birds chirping, wind whistling through the leaves of the trees.

Rhys was also aware that he was laying face down in the dirt. Alone.

Free.

He wasn’t dead.

His remaining wing was useless. Damaged beyond repair. There was no salvation for it, no use really, when you couldn’t fly with one wing. It would have to be removed.

Rhys pushed himself off the ground, unsteady as his muscles in his legs remembered what it was like to bare weight.

He took in his surroundings and from the smell of the air, he knew he was home. They had dumped him at the border of the Night Court. Leaving him for death, or scavengers. It didn’t matter which. They brought him home, less of a male than he had been. It was not a mercy. It was a mockery.

Rhysand wasn’t dead. But he wished he were.


End file.
